


Small

by themantlingdark



Category: Actor RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-08
Updated: 2018-12-08
Packaged: 2019-09-13 21:30:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16900164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themantlingdark/pseuds/themantlingdark
Summary: some very silly, fluffy rpf... eeeeep.





	Small

The first time they meet, Tom says what everyone always says, and Chris silently groans.

All anyone ever seems to notice about him is his size. His acting is an afterthought, and he feels like he’s just there to fill out armor and hold up a cape.

But, afterward, Tom is so enthusiastic about the acting end of things that Chris forgives his initial superficial reaction.

Chris is a bit intimidated. Tom went to RADA. Did his time in theaters, not begrudgingly or desperately, but gratefully and joyfully. Classically trained. Beautiful. Graceful. And when he opens his mouth an encyclopedia always seems to fall out.

But all through their scenes together, Tom is cheering Chris on. And when they rehearse he’s always encouraging, never condescending. He’ll ask Chris’s opinion about everything and give it serious consideration and then wind and weave his own ideas and performance around what Chris has said.

Like they’re dancing.

And Ken gives them room to play, and that’s more generosity than either of them ever expected from a production this big. Quite a gamble. Hugely rewarding.

And pretty soon they’re calling and texting each other in their free time. And it’s nice to have someone else to stumble around with while they’re both adrift in strange cities and on anonymous sound stages.

They’re both getting so much exercise training for the action and stunts they can eat like freaks when they go out for lunch or dinner, which they do as often as they’re able. Marvel pays its actors famously little, but it’s still far more money than either of them is accustomed to.

Tom teases Chris for how he looks like a teddy bear.

Chris is still in the process of bulking up. In the last few weeks before filming he’ll do loads of cardio and cut back on calories to burn away the fat. But, at the moment, he can’t deny he’s a bit… soft-looking… and Tom is forever poking and pinching bits of him, grinning all the while, and Chris can’t help but think  _ Loki _ , but he hardly minds: it’s the only affection he’s getting anymore.

And it reminds him of his brothers - they tease him on Skype for his chubby cheeks and how the weight makes him look like a “baby-man.”

And it occurs to Chris that he and Tom are behaving like brothers, in character and out of it.

Their backgrounds are surprisingly similar. They both know what it’s like to be the middle child in a trio of siblings. The way it tugs you in two directions; your older sibling sharing each new milestone and broadening your horizons, your younger sibling begging you to linger in youthful games a bit longer than you otherwise would have. How you can be at each other’s throats fighting and then your mom calls you in for dinner and you sit there, glaring daggers across the table and refusing to pass the potatoes all through the meal, and you go to bed swearing you’ll never forgive each other… and in the morning you’ve forgotten all about it and you go back to building your weird little worlds together.

Tom and Chris are old enough to have outgrown the arguing, but they’re still fashioning a new world from their thoughts and fantasies. Fleshing out its corners and setting it spinning.

It feels a bit like finding the fountain of youth.

And when  _ Thor _  comes out there’s the press to do. Lots of traveling together. And Tom has a thousand sweet things to say. And they wink and wave and flirt their way through crowds and across stages. And, when they’re all wrapped up in the middle of it, Chris is convinced there’s something there. That it’s not just that Tom is friendly. That he feels the same spark and that they’re linked by a strand of spider silk, unseen but undeniable, tugging their eyes together across enormous rooms at exactly the same time so that they can send semaphore messages with their eyebrows and smiles.

Chris wants to ask Tom out for coffee. Take him out to dinner. Kiss him against the back of a dressing room door and feel the warmth of his friend flush against his front.

He scrolls through his contacts. Types texts and deletes them. Stares at his phone and tries to will the thing to ring. Talks to himself in the shower, practicing all the things he wants to say - the things he wants to do.

And then weeks pass where they won’t see each other and Chris talks himself out of it in stages.

He tells himself he should at least wait until their contracts with Marvel are up.

_ Don’t shit where you eat, Chris, you’re too old for that and it’ll cost you too much. _

And then he reminds himself that Tom is effusive with his affections and kind to strangers.

Tells himself that it’s wishful thinking. Just the thrill of seeing each other’s careers take off together. Just a professional crush. Just the beginner’s mistake of letting himself get too mixed up in his character. Letting the passion of their scenes together spill out into his life.

Sloppy.

Unprofessional.

And he frets that he’s offended Tom.

But then Tom will show up on a stage somewhere and call Chris his brother from another mother, and warmth will seep through Chris like wine and he won’t know where to stand, but that’s better than being certain that Tom doesn’t love him.

When they find out they’ll be working together again for  _ The Avengers _  they’re both over the moon. But they’re also a bit disappointed by the film’s use of Thor. Still, they stuff as much meat as they can manage into their scenes together. Try to cram the combined two thousand years their characters have existed into the span of a few minutes.

They make a good job of it.

They both thought  _ Thor _  was big, but this blows it out of the water.

The press tours and publicity are different.

Loud.

Chaotic.

Frightening.

It wears on them.

And they’re being watched more closely now, so they don’t get to have quite as much fun.

Afterward Tom seems more cautious. Wrapped up in other work.

When Chris’s will breaks and he lets himself look online, he sees shot after shot of Tom looking grim around the mouth.

He tells himself it’s just that Tom’s being photographed more. No one is obliged – or able - to smile all the time. No one is glad to have their privacy invaded.

But then it starts happening in photo calls and press conferences where it never did before and he worries about his friend.

Always alone.

Always working.

Chris meets up with Tom for lunch when he’s in the middle of filming  _ The Hollow Crown, _  and the sight of his friend is a shock.

“When can you start eating again?” Chris asks, frowning at Tom’s salad.

“It’ll be a few weeks,” Tom admits. “But it’s not as bad as it looks. The hair and beard are old theater tricks – an easy way to make you look gaunt in a pinch. And we’re shooting it backward, so I get to gain some of it back soon for  _ Henry IV _ .”

“Thank Christ,” Chris says.

“Is it that bad?” Tom laughs.

“You look so-”

“Old?” Tom offers.

“Tired, mate.”

“I’m meant to look tired. And old.”

“Henry V is meant to look tired and old.  _ You’re not _ . Can’t they just take the weight off post production?” Chris teases, with a wink.

“We don’t have a Marvel budget,” Tom smiles.

“Shame.”

“It is a bit.”

When rehearsals start for  _ The Dark World _ , Alan allows them an unimaginable of amount of input, and Tom and Chris spend hours rehashing, revising, and theorizing.

But the story is a grim one, and the more playful thoughts they batted back and forth for the last two films have no place here.

And Tom is so tense.

Something frantic seems to vibrate just beneath his skin, as though Loki’s anger has infected him.

Chris wants to flood his friend with warm milk and bury him under hot water bottles.

“Have you gone method?” Chris asks, two weeks into it, only half joking.

“Hmmm? Method? God no,” Tom laughs. “Why do you ask?”

“You seem like you’re in character all the time,” Chris shrugs.

“Ah. I suppose I am a bit,” Tom says to the floor with a tight smile.

Tom isn’t needed on location for the London filming, but he lives there, so Chris gets to see him anyway, sneaking in the back door of the building to get to Tom’s flat.

“Hello, darling,” Tom smiles, and ushers him in with a hug.

Chris loves Tom’s hugs. His arms are long enough that, even though Chris is rather broad, Tom’s arms can soundly encircle him. It makes him feel small, which is a novelty for Chris. And Tom doesn’t shy from him or try to keep air between them. Their bellies press together, and the fronts of their thighs touch, and Tom hums a happy sound while Chris rubs his friend’s back and squeezes him tight.

Chris categorizes Tom’s hugs as being the nourishing sort.

Tom’s flat is bright and spare and smells like books.

“I like it,” Chris says, smiling up at the fairy lights that are strung wherever Tom’s arms can reach, which is nearly everywhere.

“My little slice of the universe,” Tom shrugs, as they sit down and wait for the kettle to boil.

They chat about Chris’s trip and travel in general.

“It’s funny,” Tom says, stroking the base of his throat in his absentminded way. “You think it’s going to make the world smaller – finally being able to travel, and the junkets and everything. And it does, but not in the way you expect. It makes _ your _  world smaller. Your life exists behind a closed door. And beyond that door, you belong to the public.”

“Yeah,” Chris nods. “And then you feel naïve for not seeing it coming, and ungrateful for resenting it.”

“Exactly,” Tom sighs, and the kettle screams.

Chris falls in love with Tom’s flat instantly. It smells like Tom and it’s private and few people get to see it. It’s a sort of luxury - a rare gift - to be allowed into someone’s home. To touch the towels and find them damp from your friend having just washed his hands. To see the wear on the rugs and know where he walks the most. To read his habits in the worn edges of a favorite wooden chair. The way the sofa sags slightly from where he prefers to sit. The smudges left by long fingers on the cupboard doors. The stain of curry on the counter top that hasn’t yet been scoured away.

Chris likes to reveal doodles drawn in steam on windowpanes by puffing a breath against them. When he does it to the mirror in Tom’s loo he finds dancing figures and a snippet of one of the sonnets.

_ If I could write the beauty of your eyes, _

_ And in fresh numbers number all your graces, _

_ The age to come would say ‘This poet lies; _

_ Such heavenly touches ne’er touched earthly faces. _

They order take away and steal the best bits from each other’s cartons.

But, as the day wears on, Tom grows guarded in a way that is all the more jarring for how at ease he normally is behind closed doors.

When Chris would visit him in his hotel rooms Tom would always be so soft, open, and cheerful, and it would almost infect Chris. For days afterward he’d feel a peaceful warmth and he’d remember Tom’s jokes and smiles and anecdotes, and the tiny touches of their fingertips as Tom handed him a glass of water or a bottle of beer.

Tom’s shoulders feel like stone beneath Chris’s fingers when they hug goodbye.

Chris catches his friend’s face falling before the door has fully closed.

When they next see each other, they’re about to begin filming the bulk of their scenes together in Iceland.

They each show up two days early to hash out exactly what they want to do and get a sense of the space they’ll be moving through. They hone in on how they want to say their lines, where they want to interrupt each other, and how they want to move together.

Halfway through the first day Tom seems to snap, in his own gentle way. His left hand is cupping his belly and his right is roughing up his hair.

“Does Thor  _ know _ ?” Tom says, as he paces back and forth. “Does he understand?”

“Understand  _ what _ ?”

“That the core fueling Loki’s anger is actually  _ love _ .”

“I think he knows,” Chris nods. “He has to. Loki told him everything at the end of _ Thor _ .”

“Well then why the fuck doesn’t he do something?” Tom says, and goes to get a sip of water.

Chris has noticed this pattern before. Whenever Tom has to talk about something that he finds upsetting, he drinks water immediately afterward, as though he could wash the taste of those unwanted words from his mouth.

“What can he do?” Chris says, shrugging. “Thor’s life doesn’t belong to him. He’s Asgard’s.”

“But is it selflessness or selfishness?” Tom says. “Does he regret the sacrifice, or is he relieved to have the excuse? Is it purely pity? Or does he have something to be nervous about, too?”

“How could he not?”

“How do you mean?”

“He doesn’t want to hurt Loki,” Chris says. “You know that. By the time Loki lets go of the spear, Thor knows Loki’s in love with him, and Thor doesn’t want him to drop. Came to terms with it too quickly not to have thought of it before, don’t you think? Probably considered it sort of idly.”

“So is he ashamed?”

“No.” Chris says instantly. “Not of that. Ashamed of what he did on Jotunheim and his blindness to his brother’s misery. But he’s way too old to give a shit about… conventions. I think he likes trouble as much as Loki does. Especially if it isn’t really hurting anyone. He loves the fight with Banner, even though they’re allies, because he knows he can’t really damage him. He still just wants to fuck shit up when he gets the chance.”

“It’s not worth it to him, though, is it?” Tom asks. “To actually try. To tell him.”

“It’s not a question of worth. It can be worth everything to him all his life even if he never acts on it.”

“So what’s he afraid of?”

“He isn’t,” Chris says.

“Then what the hell?” Tom gasps.

“Sweetheart it’s a fucking kids’ movie. We are not writing it. What our characters would really do is never exactly what’s going to happen. If I grab you and kiss you and spend twenty minutes peeling off that bloody costume with cameras rolling, we’re getting fired.”

Tom laughs and drags his hands over his face.

“Sorry,” Tom says, dropping his head. “Right…. right. It’s just… We’ve had so much freedom in this… and… now what? It ends like Gwyneth’s line in  _ Tenebaums _ ? ‘I think we’re just gonna have to be secretly in love with each other and leave it at that.’”

Chris laughs.

“I know, mate,” Chris says. “Not very satisfying, is it?”

Tom shakes his head.

When they’ve finished for the day they’re still a bit on edge.

It’s dusk when they bundle up and head out to the car Chris rented. He’s a born driver. It relaxes him. And driving in a new place helps him to learn his way around it faster.

Tom gets to sit beside him and stare. He’s always preferred to be a passenger, taking in the details you can’t linger on when you’re behind the wheel.

But even in his dreamy haze, Tom soon realizes they’re going the wrong way.

“Are we lost?” Tom asks.

“No. Thanks for the vote of confidence, though. Prick.”

They grin.

Chris pulls off on the side of the road and parks the car on a flat spot.

“Come on,” Chris says, tossing his head, blond hair bouncing where it sticks out under his hat in flippy little arcs.

“Where are we going?” Tom asks, and Chris points to the top of a mountain.

Probably a hill, technically. But an awfully big one.

Tom’s eyebrows lift, but he’s grinning. He’s a bit competitive. And his legs are long.

Soon they’re nearly sprinting.

Their feet skid and scramble, but they catch themselves with their hands as they clamber up the slope.

On the summit they wheeze and pant and double over, propping themselves up with their hands on their thighs.

They linger to take in the view.

It’s dark out now.

“It really does look like Jotunheim,” Tom laughs, and Chris nods.

They’d filmed everything on sound stages in front of green screens for  _ Thor _ . To see a world of ice and shadow feels like stepping into a dream.

It looks as though the stars would catch them if they fell, and Tom understands a little better what it was when Loki let go.

“Look how small we are,” Tom marvels, staring up at the stars, and Chris can hear his friend’s smile.

And Chris leans over and kisses Tom on the corner of the mouth. Just long enough that it can’t be construed as platonic.

“What was that for?” Tom says.

“You’re the clever one. What are kisses usually for?”

“But… why now?”

“In case you don’t want it. We can just leave it up here. And it can be small. And we can forget it.”

“Is it still small if I do want it?”

“A drop in the ocean,” Chris nods, and Tom leans in and kisses Chris on the center of his lower lip.

“And if I want an ocean’s worth?” Tom whispers, breath warm on Chris’s skin.

“Indian Ocean might be doable.”

“Aiming rather low,” Tom pouts.

“We’re pretty old.”

“Mmmm. A thousand years old. Each,” Tom nods, and Chris shakes his head.

“God, you’re gonna call me brother, aren’t you?” Chris groans.

“It’s a bit sexy, don’t you think?”

“I don’t think I should encourage you.”

“That just means you agree.”

Chris pinches Tom’s ass, hard, and then sprints down the hillside, arms wheeling at his sides to help his balance.

Tom comes tumbling after.

They eat in the tiny restaurant in their hotel, letting their legs brush together beneath the tablecloth.

Tom’s room is closest to the elevator on the third floor.

“Want to come in for a beer, or tea, or something?” Tom asks, as he swipes his card through the lock.

“’Or something’ sounds good,” Chris says, and he sees Tom try to hide a grin by turning his head.

Chris hangs the  _ do not disturb _  sign on the knob when he closes the door and then he flips the lock.

They pile their hats, gloves, scarves, and puffy coats onto a chair. Leave their boots by the door. Take turns in the bathroom.

When Chris comes out, Tom is already stripping off his clothes, but that’s normal. It was actually odd when Chris saw Tom in his flat in London because Tom was fully clothed the entire time. That never happens when Tom is in his own space and comfortable. He’s always missing at least one substantial article of clothing – either the trousers or the shirt. More often it’s all gone. Chris lost count of how many times Tom answered the door in a towel or a blanket or boxer-briefs during junkets and filming for the last two movies.

Chris is more guarded. On the beach or at the pool it’s one thing, but under other circumstances he likes more layers. He’s been treated like meat and judged largely on his appearance since he was seventeen. He’s tired of being seen.

“What’ll it be?” Tom says, standing at the kitchenette counter in his underpants.

“Water, please.”

They sip their drinks side by side, shoulders bumping, condensation dripping down their fingers.

“Is this a whim?” Tom asks, cocking his head.

“Nope. Wanted this since rehearsals for  _ Thor _ .”

“Same,” Tom nods. “Expectations?”

“More like hopes and fears,” Chris laughs. “I’m not interested in something casual. I want serious. And exclusive. But I don’t want to fuck everything up.”

They both laugh.

“Likewise,” Tom nods. “Anything else I should know?”

“Um… I’m healthy. I’m not sure what to say. I don’t know how far you want to go with this tonight.”

“Neither do I,” Tom says. “So I like to get everything on the table up front.”

“Right. Well…” Chris sighs, and rakes his hair with his fingers. “I don’t like anything in my ass. And I don’t mind talk, but nothing nasty… I don’t mean nothing raunchy, just… nothing cruel.”

Tom nods.

“What about you, mate?” Chris asks.

“I’m healthy… I love kissing… And I will not tolerate head-guiding. At all. Ever.”

Chris nods.

There’s a couch, and Chris expects Tom to make for it, but he bypasses it and heads to the bedroom.

“Coming?” Tom calls, and Chris follows. “Need anything? Want to borrow some pajamas?”

“Maybe later.”

Tom nods and turns down the bed before bouncing across the mattress and flopping down with a grin, patting the space in front of him.

“Come on,” Tom says. “I know you hate the cold. Let’s warm you up for a bit.”

Chris smiles because, yes, he does dislike the cold. He misses Australia. Or even L. A.

He takes off his jeans, socks, and sweater, but leaves his boxers and tee in place before climbing in to bed.

Tom doubles the quilt over so it’s folded on top of his friend and then wiggles closer to belly up against him, fussing and tucking the sheet around both of them.

“Hello,” Tom smiles, and presses their noses together.

Chris’s left eye shuts with his grin.

Tom slides his slim thigh between Chris’s full ones and slips his arm around his waist. He kisses Chris on the cheek and along the jaw as he snuggles in closer and hooks his chin over Chris’s shoulder.

They stay that way for ten minutes, nearly dozing, but not quite. Tom’s toes are wiggling, like a cat twitching its tail and giving away its excitement.

If Chris gets any warmer he will fall asleep, so he unfolds the quilt and sets it over their feet before sagging back down onto his side and leaning forward until his lips are pressed to Tom’s.

Tom rubs his cheeks against Chris’s own, channeling a cat again, dragging his smooth skin against the beard that Chris is growing to look the part of Thor. He prefers his friend clean-shaven – the beard makes him look older and troubled, and hides his lovely complexion. It also distracts from his eyes, which Tom considers a crime. Tom is looking forward to the end of filming when Chris can shave it off and they can do this again and there will only be skin. Nothing between them.

Chris nips Tom’s ears when they’re in reach. Nudges Tom onto his back, climbs on top of him, and rubs his whiskers all over his friend’s fair skin. Tom is humming and chuckling and Chris can hear the sound buzzing in Tom’s neck and rattling both their breasts. And Tom has to admit the beard might be good for something, but decides, ultimately, if he wants bristly fur against his face he’ll just nuzzle Chris’s crotch.

Chris is staring down at Tom, breast rising in swift waves. He leans back and strips his shirt off.

They flash their semaphore smiles.

And then Tom leans up for kisses and gets all that he could hope for. Slow slides of full lips over his thin ones. Nips and bites. Rolling of sensitive skin between sharp teeth. A mouth to tease open in slow stages as his own opens wantonly and welcomes the slick warmth of a tongue.

Chris moans when Tom sucks on his tongue and Tom’s hands rub the base of his spine - that spot dead center, just below the waistline of his boxers, that makes his cock twitch and his hips buck. They watch each other’s faces as they cautiously grind their hips together. Chris sees Tom’s eyes close of their own accord. Watches long lashes flutter. Tom sees Chris bite his lip and flare his nostrils before darting down to deal more kisses to his neck. Tom tosses his head back to welcome them. It’s always felt like his throat has a direct line to his cock, and to have Chris’s lips on it is enough that he’s pretty sure he could come just like this if he stopped clenching, so he doesn’t.

The thin layers of cotton between them are damp with sweat and the promise of sex. It makes them both feel young. Makes this feel new.

Chris rolls off to the side again to spare their cocks a chafing.

They’re both panting and grinning.

“Back in a sec,” Tom says, and darts off to the bathroom.

Chris can hear Tom unzipping his shaving kit.

He returns with a towel, a handful of tissues, and a little bottle of lube.

Chris smiles and scoots back and Tom lays the towel in front of him before climbing in and urging Chris closer.

And then Tom’s long fingers are stroking a thick neck. Tracing collarbones. Flowing over the fullness of shoulders and pecs. Tweaking and teasing the pink peaks of nipples.

Tom’s eyes follow his fingertips as they map honey-tinted skin.

Chris’s eyes stare at the tip of Tom’s tongue, poised between his lips as though it’s supervising this exploration.

And then Tom’s fingers are splayed over Chris’s belly and slowly sliding down.

They stop when they hit cotton.

“May I keep going?” Tom whispers.

“Yes.”

Tom is a bit of a tease. He follows the waistband around to the back and dips down to cup the curves of an ass that has been calling his name for several years.

Chris moans softly against Tom’s jaw, so Tom stays there a moment, caressing the lovely mounds of flesh before squeezing them in a fond farewell.

And then his fingers dip between their bodies to rough up the scattered hairs at the base of Chris’s belly, following them down and then skating up over the tented cotton of his boxers.

Tom can feel the tension in the fabric slacken and then snap as the erection trapped beneath it bobs its greeting. He feels the sticky wet heat soaking through the cloth from the tip of Chris’s prick. And Tom hasn’t taken the time to make a man wet like this in years. He kicks himself for his negligence, but cheers himself for remembering his manners when it really matters to him.

He strokes the base of Chris’s cock with the backs of his fingers. Palms his testicles carefully and hears Chris swearing softly. Pets the insides of his thighs. Sneaks his fingers up the leg of the thin shorts and runs a finger through the crease between the thigh and groin and Chris spreads his legs to welcome it.

Tom does it again and grazes the edge of a testicle and Chris wants Tom to tease him like this forever and to put him out of his misery right now in equal measure.

And he wants to touch Tom.

To see him so lost.

Chris whines when Tom pulls his hand away, but then Tom urges Chris’s hips up so that he can finally tug those blasted boxers down and that’s more than welcome.

There’s a little thread of precome dangling from the head of Chris’s cock. Tom swipes his finger through it and licks it from his own skin while Chris’s prick twitches in approval.

And Chris can’t wait anymore. Needs lips on his lips.

He leans in to beg for kisses and Tom giggles and grants them gladly - playful smacking pecks that melt into long liquid things that let them feel as though they’ve tied themselves in a knot that can’t be undone.

Their mouths will henceforth feel empty for having known the company of each other’s tongues.

And the makeup artists will be groaning about how many hickeys they have to cover on Monday, but neither Tom nor Chris can be brought to care. Tom has such a slender and lovely neck. Chris feels obliged to point it out to the world by painting it with pinks and purples. And When Tom sucks on Chris’s throat he is rewarded with moans and twitches and pumps of hips, and anything that makes Chris fuck like he’s Tom’s own personal sex puppet is very nearly too good to be true, so Tom won’t be stopping any time soon.

Chris is rolling his hips and breathing heavy. His fingers are on Tom’s waistband.

“I want these off of you,” Chris pants. “Can I-”

“Yes,” Tom breathes, and lifts his hips.

Tom pulls the fabric down in the back while Chris takes the front, stretching the waistband forward in a comically deep V so it doesn’t get caught on Tom’s cock.

And the sight has Chris gaping. The tip of Tom’s prick is nearly at his navel. And then there are his hips, bony and beautiful, and Chris wants to kiss them, but not necessarily now. Maybe later when Tom is sleepy. Chris wants to soothe the little cradle of bone that’s been burdened with long legs that love to run and the most ridiculous penis Chris has ever seen.

Chris hears a click and looks up to find that Tom has the lube.

“Gimme your hand, love,” Tom says.

“It’s my left.”

“It’s not going to matter. I’m already close.”

Chris nods and offers his palm and Tom squirts a little blob of gel into it before running lines of it down the sides of their pricks and squirting extra into his own palm.

They watch each other’s hands as they cross the space between their hips and carefully coat each other’s cocks. And, once they’re both slick and situated, their wrists glide in tandem, forearms pressed together, slow at first but swiftly building. Their heads loll on their necks and they lean in for kisses that are more shared breath and brushes of lips than a proper snog, but somehow it’s just as erotic.

“Tighter,” Tom begs, and Chris nods and flexes his fist.

They can hear the wet sounds of the lube flowing between their fingers. Chris has to work his wrist more to cover the length of Tom, but he’s getting it. He starts thumbing the head and Tom starts gasping desperate little vowels against his lips –  _ ahs _ and  _ ohs _ – and his eyes are closing tight and Chris watches and swipes his thumb over Tom’s slit and Tom jerks and sprays come onto their chests. The shock of warmth and wetness has Chris finishing with a stunned gasp and eyes that only grow wider when he sees his semen hit the base of Tom’s throat.

They press their foreheads together and nod off for a couple of minutes while they catch their breath. Chris wakes Tom up with a kiss to the tip of his nose.

They mop themselves up with tissues and then stagger off to the bathroom to wipe themselves down with wet flannels. They drink some water and tumble back into Tom’s bed.

Chris lies there and thinks about Tom, which is silly, probably, because Tom is currently half on top of him.

Chris thinks Tom looks like ballet.

Like Rodin and Giacometti all at once.

Like Egyptian mummies and Sargent portraits.

Impossible.

Perfect.

He hates himself for not acting sooner, and yet he can’t regret a thing, for all his steps led him here in the end.

Tom is chewing on Chris’s lower lip with steadily increasing pressure, because Chris’s mind is wandering and Tom can see it floating around behind his eyes.

“Ow.”

“Penny for your thoughts,” Tom chirps.

“Where, exactly, are you keeping this penny?”

“You’ll have to frisk me.”

“I think that’s a ploy,” Chris says.

“Well, you’ll find something that starts with p-e-n-”

“Oh my God! You are five years old. Honestly. The second the fucking cameras stop rolling it’s just penis penis penis with you.”

“Well it was all I had going for me for a while,” Tom pouts. “Weird face, weird teeth, funny hair, funny voice, bit of a boffin, but dick for days.”

“No fun to have your book judged by its cover, is it?” Chris says.

“Not quite. I rather imagine it’s the story of your life.”

“Seems like it sometimes.”

“Sorry,” Tom murmurs. “Hell of a dust jacket on you though, love.”

Chris snorts and gives Tom a squeeze that’s equal parts affection and punishment.

A brother hug.

In the morning Tom wakes to the press of Chris’s lips against the bones of his hips.

They both think of worship and they wonder if perhaps they’ve made gods of each other at long last.

 

**Author's Note:**

> please don't comment or repost.


End file.
